Where Plot Bunnies Roam
by IsmayDeVain
Summary: Peter and Neal are arguing. A criminal has a gun. A girl is running. It's all so very confusing.


**So this was a dream I had a while ago and it kept floating around my head. It's complete nonsense, but I hope it makes you laugh.**

**Standard disclaimers apply**

Peter charged out of the warehouse, running a hand angrily through his hair. Neal followed him, fedora in his hands.

"Come on, Peter. What did you want me to do? They were about to make the trade and you were still five minutes out."

Peter whirled on him, "It was reckless, Neal. That move could have cost us the case, not to mention your life!"

"I did what I had to do," Neal said firmly, "It was the only option I saw."

* * *

><p>She ran as fast as her feet could carry her, but the jumble of New Yorkers hogging the sidewalks hindered her every move. It seemed they were all headed in one direction-which ever way she <em>wasn't<em> going. Tired of the insanity, she hopped off the curb and into stalled traffic, dodging taxis and ignoring angry shouts. She didn't have time for this nonsense.

Not if she wanted to save his life.

* * *

><p>"It wasn't your call to make!" Peter shouted.<p>

Neal tossed his hands into the air, "Seriously, Peter. I don't know what you want from me. It was a judgment call. You weren't there and I had to stall! Everything worked out fine."

"That isn't the point, Neal, and you know it."

Neal studied his partner and understanding dawned on him, "Oh, now I get it. This has nothing to do with the case."

"You're damn straight."

"It's that you don't trust me."

Peter stepped forward, ignoring the looks of local officers and other agents, "No, though we can get back to that later. It has to do with you making stupid, reckless calls that are going to end ups getting someone killed!"

"No," Neal said slowly, "it's because you don't trust me!"

Peter tossed his hands up in frustration and turned away.

* * *

><p>Left, right. Jump over that stroller, narrowly miss that hot dog vender. She was breathing hard, barely able to get a molecule of oxygen in her lungs. Stupid New York. Why the hell did it have to be so crowded? And hot, what was it, a hundred degrees? She'd never make it at this rate. Desperate, she clothes-lined a biker, hopping on his bike and pedaling away before the first swear word left his mouth. Throwing an apology over her shoulder, she pumped the bike like her life depended on it.<p>

Well, not her life, exactly.

* * *

><p>Peter turned back to Neal, ready to tear him a new one, when a nameless officer drug Pendetti out of the warehouse. The thief's face was feral, and his hate filled eyes were focused on one person. Neal didn't seem to notice the death threats coming his way as he stared at Peter.<p>

"Give him to Jones," Peter yelled at the officer without looking for the other agent.

"Admit it, Peter," Neal pressed, "this isn't working anymore and it's because you have absolutely no trust in me. Not even when it comes to the job."

"You're blowing this way out of proportion."

"No, I think I've got it right for once. Maybe it would be best for all of us if I spent the remainder of my term in prison," he gave a smile that held absolutely no laughter, "After all, isn't that where I belong?"

* * *

><p>A hundred yards, maybe less. She never was any good at measuring distances. But she could see them, see him standing out in the open like the oblivious idiot that he was. She blew through the caution tape, passing the angry barricade officers. She wasn't going to be fast enough. She knew it.<p>

Fifty yards out (give or take a few) she jumped the bike and ran for all she was worth.

* * *

><p>Peter gave no indication that he hated the idea of Neal going back to jail. He didn't have time. Pendetti elbowed the officer, pulling the man's weapon and opening fire. He only got off one shot before dozens of agents and officers had their guns out, firing bullet after bullet into his body. He fell to the ground, a lifeless bloody mess. But Peter didn't see any of that.<p>

Pendetti's bullet was true and hit its mark. It tore through muscle and bone, through the left lung and piercing the heart before lodging in the breast bone, spraying blood over Peter's suit and tie and face. Horror froze Peter's face. Confusion froze Neal's, and then the young man dropped the fedora.

"Peter?"

Even over the retort of gunfire and echoes of angry shouts, Peter heard his friend's whisper. He had a second to glance at the spray of blood of clothes before Neal dropped to his knees. Peter reached for him, laid him gently on the ground. Neal watched him with startled eyes and then he coughed, black blood dripping over his lips.

"Pe…"

The word died on his lips as the breath left him and his body fell limp, eyes wide open and frozen in panic.

Peter touched Neal's face tenderly, as if he were a china doll he would break, "Neal?"

"No! God damn it! You idiots!"

Peter, startled by the unexpected out burst, looked up to see a blond girl in her early twenties, sweaty and panting, jumping up and down, literally throwing a temper tantrum. Jones, still holding his gun out and keeping one eye on the very dead Pendetti, approached her.

"Miss, you need to leave. This area isn't safe."

She whirled on him, pointing her finger under his nose, "Oh, you've got that right, Clinton Jones! This place isn't safe at all, for _you_. Oh, mister, when I get through with you, you're gonna think hell is a vacation resort."

Jones stepped back, "Excuse me?"

"This is all your fault!"

The girl stomped her foot then thought better and kicked Jones in the leg.

"What did I do?" Jones demanded, grabbing his leg in pain.

"He's dead!" she yelled, gesturing wildly to where Peter still held Neal, "How the hell am I supposed to fix that one?"

Peter pried himself out from under Neal's corpse, "Hey, this isn't Jones' fault. You're the writer. You did this."

She whirled on him, "Don't you start on me, Peter Burke. This is just as much your fault as it is Jones."

For good measure, she kicked Peter too.

"Ouch!" Peter cried, hopping on one leg.

"And where the hell is Diana?"

"Here."

They turned to see Diana leaning against a squad car, eating a doughnut.

"Seriously? You're eating while Neal is getting killed?"

Diana shrugged, "I wasn't even part of the story until Pendetti came out of the warehouse. I thought I had time to grab a snack."

She threw her hands in the air and whirled on Jones, "And what exactly is your excuse?"

"I didn't do anything!" Jones protested.

"You were supposed to be taking Pendetti from Officer No Name. Then, when he went to take the shot at Neal, you were supposed to be there to misdirect it. How is this misdirecting?" She stood over Neal pointing at the bloody wound on his left side, "This is not the winging I had in mind. A few stitches, a little guilt for Peter because of the argument, not a full on death scene, you moron!"

"Um," Jones muttered looking over his shoulder at the news van and curvy reporter waving at him.

"Seriously! You were flirting! FLIRTING!" she glared at the news van, "I hate reporters."

Half a second later, a freight container flattened the van. There were no survivors.

"Aw, come on. Was that completely necessary?" Jones whined.

She glared at him, "I could write you with someone so much better, but now that you've gone and gotten Neal killed, I think I'm going to have you get run over by a bus."

Jones paled and scratched the back of his head, "Yeah, I probably deserve that."

"And you, Miss I Need a Snack," she yelled, turning on Diana, "How does gaining twenty pounds sound to you?"

Diana's eyes widened and she dropped the doughnut, wiping her fingers on her skirt, "Oops."

"Oops, oops she says. Like that is going to bring him back to Life."

"Can't you just write it as less of an injury?" Peter asked, standing beside her over his dead partner.

She glared at him, "Peter, it went straight through his lung and pierced his heart. How do you lessen that?"

"Good point."

"No, now we have to start all over again!"

There were multiple groans, including an exaggerated one from Neal as he bounced to his feet beside Peter.

"Do we have to?" he asked, "I hate getting shot."

She grinned and tapped his cheek, "Yes, but you look so damn hot doing it."

"How would you know?" Peter demanded, "It's never happened on the show. This is just your fantasy!"

"Very disturbing fantasy, I might add." Neal smirked.

She smirked, "Watch it, buddy, or I'll get you kidnapped again."

Neal paled, "Oh, please don't. There are worse things than being shot and you always seem to make me go through all of them."

"Torture scenes are the best."

"Peter," Neal whined.

"Okay, look, Ismay. We'll do the scene again and get it right this time, no Neal torture scenes."

"Fine," Ismay sighed then smiled evilly, "However, Neal does still look like an extra in the Night of the Living Dead."

In the next instant, the blood on Neal was gone. As was his shirt.

"Oh come on." Neal shouted crossing his arms.

"Really?" Peter asked.

"Mm, now this does happen in the show," she grinned, "I'm liking that, by the way."

Neal scowled at her.

"Excuse me," Jones called, "not to interrupt, but could we get on with it?"

Taking one last admiring view, Ismay sighed, "Alright, just remember your parts this time. And Pendetti!"

The corpse of the killer sat up, "Yo."

"Aim for the left shoulder area. I want him winged, not dead."

"Gotcha."

"Through and through is good, but I would accept an entrance wound. Requires surgery and mothering from El and June, but nothing vital."

Pendetti gave her an 'ok' sign and wondered back into the warehouse. Ismay started to walk away when she turned back to Neal.

"Oh, and don't suggest the prison thing, Neal. Not your style to sulk."

Neal spread his arms, now clad in a white dress shirt, "I was improvising."

"Yeah, well don't. Stick to the script," she smirked, "so you don't get killed."

Neal rolled his eyes. Ismay smiled at him. His shirt disappeared again.

"For crying out loud," Peter muttered, hiding his face behind his hand.

"Mm, such a nice view."

"You have problems," Neal said.

"Careful, or I'll give you cancer."

Ismay turned away and Neal now wore his shirt. Peter squeezed Neal's shoulder encouragingly as they followed the other officers and agents into the warehouse.

"Hey, Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"She wouldn't really give me cancer, would she?"

"No worries, Neal. The chemo would kill your hair and we all know how much she loves that."

Neal sighed, "Oh thank god."

"But you're still going to get shot."

Neal groaned, "I hate writers."

**Hope it gave you some giggles. The dream was so weird. I literally saw myself yelling at the characters for screwing up the plot and getting Neal killed. I woke up laughing.**

**Review please!**


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